Sorry, Anna
Even though, I don’t have a right to ask…
Don’t know how to accept – I’ll be taken.
Take the pieces of my parted glass!
Know no language to speak to my soul,
Give away what is left of my thoughts.
And I no longer cry; silent howl
Could be heard only by ancient gods.
Either sheep is inside, eating feelings,
Either it has formed a black hole,
Where the Great Universe of perceiving
Is unfolded and gone through the wall.
You may stay alive after dying,
You may live in hearts and in souls.
Or you can be a walking-dead, crying
That you’ve killed the remains of your goals.
Is there a question that should have been answered?
I no longer know what to ask.
Sorry, Anna, I let down your instruction,
Should I put on, again, my old mask?
(Inspired by "Mr. God, this is Anna" by Fynn)
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